


The Once and Future King

by EinahSirro



Series: How King Thorin Got a Slave [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bottom Bilbo Baggins, M/M, Mild BDSM, Possessive Thorin, Probably not a healthy relationship, Rebuilding Erebor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dain Ironfoot is in conflict with his heir, and they are turning into rivals with potentially warring factions. To avoid a violent confrontation, Gandalf suggests a return to the Durin line. Because Thorin is really the rightful king. And he’s quite recovered from the gold fever now. </p><p>Isn’t he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just a Normal Day

Bilbo and Thorin were in bed in the late afternoon, which was decadent enough in itself. Most of the working world was, well, working. Fili was in the shop in front, tactfully explaining to a customer that Thorin was in the middle of a very delicate piece of workmanship and couldn’t be disturbed just now, but that if the customer could wait by the counter, Fili could bring out a sample of the sort of--- “No, no, no, you must wait here”—he added hastily, as the customer seemed interested in a tour of the forge.

This was not a good time to take a tour of the forge.

Fili glanced back to check that the door leading to Thorin’s living quarters was closed. Well, it was, but if you listened closely it sounded like … that is … there were rhythmic, percussive sorts of noises issuing from behind the door. Not unusual in a forge, really, but… these weren’t forge-sounding, iron-smelting noises. These were more like… leather slapping against naked skin, for example. Steady slapping. Fairly loud. They were accompanied by grunts, as if someone was putting quite a bit of effort into that rhythmic slapping. Or as if someone were trying to cry out, but perhaps there was something in their mouth muffling most of the noise.

Fili, his face pink, snatched up a few samples of Thorin’s work and jogged quickly back to the front of the store, closing and latching the door behind the counter. The customer, a grizzled old dwarf whose whole head was an explosion of white, wiry hair, peered past him curiously. Fortunately, the old dwarf was rather hard of hearing. Fili fancied he himself could still hear that steady Slap! Slap! Slap! Of someone getting his round, Hobbity buttocks worked over till they were red.

“So, this is the Moria pattern on the shield, and this is the Erebor—“ he said, concentrating as best he could. But his mind rather drifted to the odd-looking leather and rope device he’d seen his uncle finish just this morning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the strange contraption was in use right this very moment.

As it was, Fili had guessed correctly. Beyond the forge, in the large, dark, firelit rooms where Thorin’s heavy wooden bed reposed, Bilbo was squirming facedown on the rumpled covers. He was kneeling not with his head up at the pillows, but across the bed sideways, the head of the bed to his right, the foot to his left. This allowed Thorin to stand much closer to the raised buttocks that gleamed pinkly in the firelight. 

The dwarf was rather praising himself for the invention of this fine contrivance. It was the work of several secretive afternoons while his lover was out shopping, or sightseeing, or generally being a disobedient, sneaky little Hobbit (quite deliberately.)

The device, if it were hanging up on the wall, looked at first glance like something merely decorative. There was a thick collar at one end, quite wide, almost like a sleeve for the neck. On the collar, there were three metal rings. One at the back, and one on each side. Through each ring was looped a very roughly hewn, coarse, abrasive length of hemp rope. The two on the sides were merely long loops of rope. But the one that went down that back featured several knots and large blue beads, and ended in two leather cuffs that looked just the size for a small fellow’s wrists.

Thorin had smiled as he’d taken it from its box in the forge and followed Bilbo casually into the living quarters that morning. Fili had seen it and said without thinking, “Is that to hang a plant with?”

“Not exactly,” Thorin said with a wicked grin, and disappeared into the living quarters. Fili’s eyes grew wide as he mentally reviewed the glimpse he’d caught of the contraption. Then his imagination filled in the rest and, flustered, he retreated to the front of the shop and closed the door.

Thorin closed a door behind himself as well, and watched as Bilbo set down his shopping and turned a playfully defiant eye toward the brooding dwarf leaning against the door. He made a handsome sight in his work clothes, rugged and swarthy, and that black and silver hair streaming down.

“Is that for me?” Bilbo asked innocently enough, and Thorin’s dark blue eyes took on a warning gleam. 

“It is,” he said softly. “Take your clothes off, Hobbit, and we’ll try it on for size.”

“Well, perhaps I will and perhaps I won’t,” Bilbo said cheekily.

Thorin smiled. “Perhaps you won’t leave this room until you do,” he suggested. 

Bilbo, satisfied that he had no choice then, slipped off his suspenders, dropped his trousers, and unbuttoned his shirt.

“Everything?” He asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Every single thing,” Thorin whispered, his eyes never leaving the little striptease by the table.

Bilbo suppressed a smile and slid off his shirt. Thorin’s eyes drifted lovingly over the smooth flesh, so pale in the firelight. 

“Go kneel on the bed,” the dwarf directed, and his pampered slave went and knelt as directed, his curiosity overcoming his usual tendency to make Thorin earn every concession.

Bilbo closed his eyes as his dwarf master loomed up behind him, slipping the wide, cool collar with its rich leather smell around his neck and carefully tightening it to just the perfect tension. Just enough pressure to immediately bring a flush to his slave’s cheeks as his head was forced up high and held there. Simply the act of putting on a collar of this nature was erotic. Some nights, all Thorin had to do was put a collar around his slave’s throat, pin his wrists behind his back, and start kissing. Bilbo would be a writhing, compliant, whimpering ball of squirm in no time.

But today there was clearly more on the menu. The Hobbit put his hands behind him expectantly, and was not surprised when leather cuffs were attached to each wrist. But he was surprised when his wrists were guided around to his front and attached together there. Usually that was not a feature. After all, a Hobbit whose hands are tied in front of him can masturbate himself while he’s being spanked, and it was rare that Thorin wanted him to have that means of release. Release belongs in the hands of the master.

In fact, Bilbo thought, and began fondling himself rather testingly, to see if Thorin would disapprove. But Thorin had turned to fetch the Blue Bottle of Punishment, as he’d jokingly termed it, and was now coming back to rub sweet-scented oil into the perfect white buttocks that awaited his strap.

The room was silent except for the fire, and their breathing. Thorin wrapped one arm around Bilbo’s chest and arms, and applied the other to firmly readying that plump seat for a session of brisk, stinging attention. Seeing that his Hobbit was sneakily fondling himself, Thorin smiled and added his own oiled hand to the play, rubbing warmly on the hardening flesh while his slave moaned softly. Unable to look down because of the collar, Bilbo closed his eyes and gave himself up to Thorin’s hands. They breathed quietly together as Thorin’s slick fingers rubbed and prodded his slave’s cock, and down around his sac, and between his oiled buttocks.

The Hobbit sighed as Thorin’s fingers continued to tease his head and slit in front while his other hand pinched and rubbed the pinkening buttocks.

“Now,” Thorin breathed, and picked up the rough hemp rope that hung down from the back ring of the collar. He brought it between Bilbo’s legs from behind and looped it through the rings on the cuffs, and drew it back again. 

It was a moment before Bilbo could appreciate the cleverness of the design. Thorin pulled the rope until the cuffs dragged his prisoners’ hands down, down, down between his legs, past the erection that jutted out hungrily between his forearms. Then the Hobbit became aware of a tightening of the rope that drew it into the cleft between his cheeks, and as Thorin drew it tighter yet, the large beads and knots dug into the sensitive skin deeper. What’s more, it was hooked to the back of the collar, pulling his head back farther.

“Oh! Wait – I can’t—I can’t—“ Bilbo wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted to say, and before he could finish the thought, Thorin popped the rubber ball gag into his mouth and tied it firmly behind his head.

“You can’t move, is what I think you want to say, slave,” Thorin commented amusedly. He went back to tightening the rope until Bilbo was positioned as his master wished: kneeling, hunched over, hands between his spread legs, an attractive blue line of large beads digging into the crack of his arse from bottom to top, and his head forced up attentively.

Thorin stepped back to admire the sight. Bilbo couldn’t draw his hands forward without pulling his own head back, and vice versa. The dwarf nodded, smirking, and then stepped forward again to loop one side rope from the collar to around each knee and pull it tight, spreading his captive’s legs further apart.

“MMmm!” Bilbo protested, but Thorin merely applied some more oil to the trapped buttocks on either side of the blue beads. He wanted them to shine before they began.

Bilbo felt like his face was burning. He was spread out like a frog, his erection bobbed trapped and neglected in front of him—well, not entirely neglected. Thorin reached under from behind and gave him a teasing reminder of how sensitive and engorged he was. But the Hobbit was in a most uncomfortable position, and feeling top-heavy. After a few more moments of the thick dwarf fingers massaging his spread, exposed cheeks, Thorin placed one hand on his captive’s shoulder, grabbed one ankle with the other, and simply tipped him forward.

Bilbo went face-first on the blanket, hunched, spread, bound, gagged, and utterly helpless. Thorin gave him a few warm-up slaps on his oiled bum and said, “Now. Shall we begin with the paddle, the strap, or that long, thin measuring stick you favor so much?”

The Hobbit squirmed in protest. “Mm-hmp!”

“All three? Well, if you insist. But in which order… hm…” Thorin smiled as he laid the three implements on the bed where Bilbo could see them. “It’s fortunate I have the afternoon free,” he added calmly.


	2. Technique

Fili took the old dwarf’s order and watched in relief as he left the shop. Then he considered. Should he close up? If he did, he’d… have nothing to distract himself from the faint noises emerging from his uncle’s quarters. He stepped to the back quietly to replace the sample work he’d shown the old dwarf. The leather slapping had been replaced by a sharper smacking sound. More like… Fili mused… a wooden paddle?

(Crack! Crack! Crack! – muffled cries accompanying each strike)

Fili nodded. Definitely the paddle. He felt a little warm. Probably best to go back to the front and do some whittling. Might want to close up for a bit. That paddle was a lot louder than the leather strap. And besides, he needed to use the restroom for a few minutes.

(Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!)

A few long minutes, yes. Fili locked the shop door and retreated into the restroom for some privacy. The restroom was actually nearer Thorin’s room, so the sounds were louder there. Through the wall, he could hear the Hobbit’s stifled grunts.

In Thorin’s room, the spanking was well underway now. The dwarf had started with the paddle, but not hard. Just a warm up. Then he applied the leather strap. The rhythm was slower, because he liked to let the stinging die down between each strike. It drew things out nicely. 

Bilbo was sweating and panting, as he always was during a good, hard beating. But his movements were adapting to this new contraption. The beads pulled up between his buttocks provided a new kind of stimulation that was actually quite addictive if he moved correctly. He drew his hands up and down just a bit, and it pulled at his throat each time, but made those beads run back and forth over his anus as Thorin’s strap snapped brightly at his hot bum. His trapped erection was getting no friction, but maybe he could get some relief somehow… the Hobbit gave a guttural cry as the strap slapped down again, harder than before. Thorin was getting very good at striking exactly where he wanted to strike.

The dwarf was proud of his technique. First, he worked over the round, quivering buttocks presented to him very evenly with the paddle. Then he switched to the leather, concentrated on the area right over the hole, snapping at it again and again until Bilbo was moving his hips up and down in a helpless, humping response to the smarting, relentless attack. Then Thorin went back to the paddle for the sweet spot lowest on the helpless red bum. In this area he paddled briskly and fast, making his slave yelp.

Finally, he gave the Hobbit a moment’s respite, and used the time to reach under again and stroke the trapped erection that still dangled heavy and leaking. After a teasing moment of enjoying his slaves muffled moans, Thorin untied the rope that held his slave’s hands down away from his cock. He removed the rope and beads completely, dropping them on the bed, and untied the gag. Bilbo spat it out and gasped as his master picked up the long, flat measuring stick. This he applied with stinging force to the sweet spot while Bilbo stroked himself desperately.

When Bilbo was just feeling the orgasm rise, he felt Thorin toss aside the stick, drop his trousers, and quickly work some oil onto his erection. Then he eased his stiff, long-ready cock slowly into his bent, sweating slave. Bilbo halted his movements for a moment until Thorin had carefully slid into him and begun to move. Then, in unison, they moved against one another. Bilbo, compliant under his master’s calloused, warm hands, reveled in the invasion, and the feel of Thorin’s hips coming hard against his burning bum. Digging his face into the pillows, Bilbo worked his fist on himself as his master thrust into him until the building tension and increasing pace brought him to that exquisite burst of relief. Bilbo came with a shout, and his contractions, after a moment more of brisk thrusting, pulled Thorin along with him into oblivion.

They slumped forward together and lay panting, Thorin spooning Bilbo, until their bodies cooled and calmed. Then the dwarf removed the collar and cuffs, tossed them aside, and stroked Bilbo’s sweaty hair.

“Tell me you deserved that,” he breathed sleepily.

Bilbo turned and crawled on top of him, and went limp, burying his nose in the spicy, scented neck. “Thank you, Master Thorin,” he murmured into Thorin’s ear. “Thank you for my punishment. Thank you for making me yours…” and all the other sweet nothings he could think of.

Thorin cuddled him close, and when Bilbo ran out of thanks, he prompted him with more suggestions. _Tell me you always want to be mine. Tell me you never want me to stop._ And they whispered to each other until they both dozed off.

When it was finally quiet, Fili decided it was safe to open up the shop again, and business went on as usual at the Durin Forge in the Blue Mountains.


	3. A Proposition

Gandalf stood before the green door and admired the display behind the many small, square panes of glass. He nodded. It looked as if normal life were going on nicely. He entered the shop and a bell jingled over his head, alerting the Hobbit behind the counter to his presence.

“Gandalf!” Bilbo said, and his face split into a wide smile. “How are you? Did you get my letter?” he put the money he was counting back into the drawer and came around the counter to shake hands cheerfully with the old wizard.

“Mm. Yes.” Gandalf said drily, and gave him a look before turning to admire the wares displayed. 

Bilbo looked proudly around with him, and gave the pile of gloves a bit of a straighten. “What do you think?”

“Very neat,” Gandalf replied, nodding slowly. “Very neat indeed.”

“Not here to rescue me, are you?” Bilbo teased lightly.

Gandalf looked a little sour. “No, Bilbo Baggins. I leave you to your fate,” he assured his short friend acerbically. 

Bilbo laughed. “Oh good. Are you here to see Thorin and Fili? They’re in the back. I’ll just get them—actually, let me close up. It’s time anyway, and we can all sit down for a nice cup of tea.”

The tall, gray wizard waited patiently while Bilbo closed up the shop, and then he followed the Hobbit, ducking his head to pass through the door leading back to the forge. In the back, Fili was putting away the tools, and Thorin was tamping down the fire for the evening.

“Look who’s here!” Bilbo announced brightly, and the two dwarves looked up and froze. Bilbo remembered belatedly that the last time Thorin and Gandalf had met had been… oh, it hadn’t been very good, had it? Bilbo bit his lip suddenly.

Thorin looked stonily at the wizard for a moment, gave him a regal nod, and then turned and took up the broom to sweep the area around the forge. Fili gave a wide, pained smile and said, “Well!” Then he looked at Thorin and Bilbo, and turned back to Gandalf. “Well, well.” He added genially, and then ran out of ideas.

“Um… let me just… I’ll clear off the table here and we can have a spot of tea,” Bilbo suggested, puttering nervously around the bits of iron on the workshop table. He supposed they could invite Gandalf and Fili back into Thorin’s living quarters for tea. There was a table and chairs. There was also a big bed that… he just didn’t want the wizard looking at. No, better to stay out here in the forge. There was a table here. It would do, Bilbo thought, hastily sweeping his hand over it to remove any bits of dust and all.

“I have come,” Gandalf said in his ponderous way, “to take the three of you out to a pub, treat you to a good dinner, tell you some news, and make a proposition.”

All three of his listeners stopped in their various endeavors. Fili heard “pub,” and “news” with mixed emotions. Bilbo heard “dinner” and “news” and was unmixedly cheered, and Thorin heard “proposition,” and felt distinct resentment. So the wizard had a new task for him, did he? The dwarf put his broom aside.

“What is this proposition?” he asked with suspicion.

Gandalf smiled. “It would not make sense without the news. The news would sit best on a full stomach. And the meal would taste better with some ale. Shall we go?”

Bilbo and Fili both looked hopefully at Thorin, who sighed and reached for the simple brown woolen coat he favored now. “Very well,” he said.

Thankfully, the wizard did not rebuke the former king for his less-than-gracious reaction to the invitation. The last time they’d met, Gandalf had blinded him and stolen his Hobbit. His advice had then kept them apart for three months. Thorin wasn’t fond of Gandalf now. 

It was true that he and his lover had sorted themselves out, reunited, and enjoyed three months so far of carnal bliss, interrupted occasionally by Bilbo’s visits back to the Shire to make sure they knew he was still alive and weren’t selling off his family heirlooms again. But for the former king, that month in the dungeons of Erebor, his forcible removal from the Lonely Mountain, and his two months of lonely recovery before his Hobbit tracked him down again still rankled sometimes. And Thorin wasn’t the type to forget. 

They exited the shop and Gandalf led them through the winding cobblestone streets to a dimly lit pub that was cheerfully decorated, and solid in leather and stone. It had just enough of a clientele to give a jolly feel but not be too crowded. They sat at a table far from the fireplace (for Thorin and Fili had spent enough time roasting themselves in the forge.) When the serving lass, a fine young thing with an eye for Fili, had set their ale before them and taken their order, Bilbo felt bold enough to begin a little light conversation.

“Have you been to Erebor?” He asked.

Fili winced and Thorin stared at the table. Any mention of Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, or gold generally had that effect. For the first month Bilbo had tip-toed around his lover’s sensitivities, but gradually he came to feel that this only slowed Thorin’s recovery. He didn’t want to treat him like a mental patient who must be protected from the slightest reminder of past trauma.

Fili was of the opinion that a little kid-glove handling might be in order, but he never confronted the Hobbit. He saw how his uncle lit up when Bilbo re-entered his life, how the withdrawn and somber ironsmith gradually become alert and responsive again, even slightly playful in his muted way. So Fili confined himself to wincing when Bilbo went straight to the heart of the matter.

“I have,” Gandalf said meaningfully, glancing at each of them in turn. “It is very much changed.” Fili was attentive, but Thorin continued to stare at the table as if concentrating on his breathing.

“The great hall is cleared of treasure now and functions as a hall should. There have been several dances and banquets,” Gandalf began, and leaned back as the serving lass returned with the food and set the plates before them. Thorin moved his hands quietly to his plate, and ate as he listened. “Dain commissioned two more tapestries and several statues. There’s a fine one of you,” Gandalf said, pointing his fork at Thorin. “He keeps your memory alive with great respect.”

Fili kept a monitoring eye on his uncle and then said, “How is my brother?”

“Oh, still following that Elven maiden around with stars in his eyes. I thought marriage would take the shine off, but they still seem enraptured with one another,” Gandalf said. Thorin’s eyes traveled up to the ceiling for a moment and then came back down to his plate. Bilbo tried not to grin. He wrapped his foot around Thorin’s calf under the table. “Some dwarves just love pointy ears,” he whispered loudly.

Thorin darted him a glance and allowed a slight, conceding smirk. Then he turned back to his food.

“How are the others?” Bilbo asked. “How is Bofur?”

Thorin gave him another glance, not nearly as welcoming as the first, but Bilbo didn’t notice.

“Mmm. He’s the one with the hat…? He seems to have developed an interest in archery.” Gandalf said thoughtfully, and Bilbo grinned, but didn’t enlighten them as to Bofur’s likely motive.

“They are all well, I can assure you,” Gandalf continued. “That is, they are in good health, and pleased with the continuing development and reclamation of Erebor. I think they are not as tightly knit as they once were, however. So many more dwarves there now, you know.” Gandalf glanced at Thorin. “Dwarves from all over, settling, opening shops and offices, trading amongst themselves and the men of Laketown. Elves of Mirkwood have also established friendly relations.”

Thorin inhaled deeply and took another bite of meat, chewing it moodily.

“Indeed, it looks very much like—“ Gandalf looked around, “like here. Simply another functioning dwarf kingdom. The furnishings and architecture are more ornate, but now that the treasure has been tidied away and spent or stored, it’s quite a normal looking community.”

Fili winced again, but was glad the wizard had at least used the word “treasure,” and not “GOLD.” The G-word. Fili avoided the G-word, always.

“I think that if you could see it now,” Gandalf said to Thorin, and paused. Both Bilbo and Fili gave a little shiver, feeling as though this was rather pushing their luck. The wizard continued, “you would find it brought back memories of your childhood rather than… more recent events.”

Thorin stopped eating and glared at Gandalf. “Clearly you want something from me,” he stated bluntly.

The sly old wizard let his eyes wander around the room again. “The Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills both are a heavy load for one dwarf,” he said casually.

“Fortunately, Dain has a son, also named Thorin,” said the former king, and resumed eating. His expression was thunderous but he kept himself under rigid control.

“He does, he does,” Gandalf admitted readily. “And if Thorin Stonehelm were wise, he would return to Iron Hills and rule, leaving Erebor to be developed under the more experienced hand of his father.”

Now all three of them were listening. “But he is still young, and seems intent upon convincing his father to return to Iron Hills and leave Erebor to him.”

Fili shrugged. “Why does it matter either way?”

Gandalf looked at him obliquely. “If Erebor passes to the Stonehelm lad, the Durin claim to it will surely be put aside forever.”

Thorin returned to staring at the table.

“But, I thought that was already—“ Bilbo began, and then awkwardly started again from a different end, “I mean, who still wants to—does Kili want…?”

“No, no. And the dwarves would never accept an Elven queen.” Gandalf said, and looked at Fili.

“Don’t look at me, I’m happy here.” Fili said instantly. Gandalf looked unconvinced, but turned his gaze to the former king.

“And are you, Thorin Oakenshield? Are you happy in your early retirement? Or are you ready now to return to Erebor, relieve the interim king, and resume your rightful position?” Gandalf asked calmly, never minding the fact that he nearly made three hearts stop beating with that statement. He took another bite of meat and regarded Thorin searchingly.

Bilbo had sudden heartburn.


	4. Discussion

In the silence that surrounded the table, Thorin was the calmest. He picked up his bread and swiped it across the plate. “And why would I want to do that?” He asked, not looking at the wizard.

“Four dwarf kingdoms controlled by four separate families is balance. Half the dwarf kingdoms controlled by one family is the beginning of a dynasty.” Gandalf explained lightly, as if it were merely a passing topic of conversation. “Dynasties have a tendency to become self-aware, and then ambitious.”

“All dwarves are ambitious,” Thorin replied flatly.

“Um,” said Fili. 

“And ambition tends to create an entirely new generation of difficulties,” Gandalf finished, staring at the former king.

“A mad king creates difficulties as well, I am told,” Thorin said, finally looking up at Gandalf, his blue eyes burning with resentment under his thick brows. 

“You aren’t actually mad,” Bilbo inserted, but Gandalf and Thorin were entirely engrossed in their stare down, and Fili and Bilbo were strictly audience.

“We all have our weaknesses,” Gandalf mused. Bilbo looked at him. This was the wizard that flatly told him the king was mad and he, Bilbo, had to leave. 

“And wisdom is knowing what they are.” Thorin stated. “I know mine.”

“Are you driven mad here?” Gandalf asked, spreading his arms to indicate the Blue Mountains. “Erebor has become very much like this. Have you ever visited the palace here?”

Thorin resumed eating. “Yes. My family was, in fact, invited several times.”

“Go mad there, did you?” Gandalf asked, brows raised.

“Not at all,” Thorin said coolly.

“No, and I believe the danger has passed in Erebor as well. It was overwhelming, that first sight of … gold. All that ... gold… in piles and piles.”

Fili put his hands on the table with what could almost be called a slap, and Thorin’s nostril’s flared.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo protested, and the wizard gave him an amused glance and then returned to beady-eying the black-haired dwarf who was trying to ignore him.

“But it’s gone now, Thorin. Tidied away. Spent. Accounted for. Tamed, you might say.”

Thorin finished his food and took a healthy swig of ale. He put the mug back down and took a breath. “Then there is … the Arkenstone.” He commented, his eyes wandering over to the Hobbit and roaming over his person as if remembering.

“Mm. Yes. Still mounted in the throne.” Said Gandalf.

All four of them were silent for a moment. The serving lass came and Gandalf put coins in her hand. When she left again, the wizard rose. “If you wish to discuss it further, I shall be visiting your sister for the remainder of the week.”

Fili closed his eyes in misery. He lived with his mother. Clearly this would be a topic of conversation constantly, and though Dis was the reasonable type, what mother doesn’t imagine her son to be a prince? Fili and Thorin looked at each other in a moment of silent, familial understanding. Destiny was clearly not quite finished with either of them.

Bilbo stared down at the table. As far as destiny concerned the Hobbit, he was apparently tied to its tail-end, and would be dragged along like an afterthought time and again. Already he was asking himself if it was possible to leave Thorin. Just go back to Bag End. Just… let it go. He risked a glance at his lover and his stomach clenched.

No, probably not. Bilbo sighed. He could almost feel the lightheartedness draining out of him. Return to Erebor. As… as what, exactly? Concubine? Consort? Page? Comrade? Valet?

… He WAS invited, wasn’t he?


	5. The Ultimatum

Well, that didn’t take long, Bilbo thought sadly, sitting at the table near the fireplace. Thorin was packing. 

Fili was not packing. He flatly refused it. He would stay in Belegost, run the shop, hire a new ironsmith, and that was the end of it. After some pressure, his mother relented, feeling sure that if Thorin re-took the throne and managed it well for a few decades, Fili would eventually grow into the idea.

As for Bilbo, his situation seemed precarious. Thorin had hit him with an ultimatum that morning. “If you return with me, it is forever.” He said with finality, risking only one passing glance at the stricken Hobbit huddled by the fire. “If you do not… we must learn to do without one another.”

Bilbo swallowed. Thorin seemed willing to accept their rupture with equanimity.

“All the same to you, then, is it?” He murmured, picking despondently at the buttons on his vest.

“No,” Thorin said, slamming closed a trunk with some violence. “This is my destiny, this is what I was raised to do, all my life. All my life I knew I was intended to lead my people. I cannot turn my back on it. I did not want to be deprived of my throne last year, when they decided I was unfit. Gandalf has spoken with enough dwarves to convince me that my return would be welcome, and I cannot say no to my responsibility.”

Bilbo listened unhappily.

“And I must do it well this time. I must be better. I must…” Thorin stopped and sighed into the air, his eyes staring at memories. “I must make right my wrongs. If I were wise, I would forbid you to come. I would bid you goodbye forever.”

The Hobbit looked up at him, startled.

“You could be a distraction. You could become an obsession again, if you haven’t already and I just don’t realize it because nothing comes between us now,” Thorin bit out, and then turned to open another trunk and load it with weapons.

“And you would be a liability,” he added quietly. “The dwarves would say, ‘See, he hasn’t changed, he still can’t let that Hobbit go.’”

Bilbo swallowed.

Thorin straightened and stared at him. “But I want you. I want you with me. I want you with me for all time. I want you to come with me and vow, promise solemnly, that you will never leave me. Come with me and be a part of my family, my court, my life, my—“ the dwarf gestured helplessly, “—my everything! All I am saying is, if you do come with me, you must stay. Erebor must be your home forever after. You cannot be a source of instability. I am not solidly approved enough for that. My people do not trust me. I must earn back their trust. I must not be seen as having a life in flux.”

“So…?” Bilbo ventured.

“So if you do not come with me, you must never come to me again. And if you do come with me, you must never leave me again.”

The Hobbit straightened indignantly, “I never left you in the first place—“ he began.

“Didn’t you? Didn’t you accept gifts and good-wishes, and mount that little pony and ride away at Gandalf’s side?” Thorin asked pointedly, slamming shut the second trunk.

“That’s not fair, I was a slave then! I didn’t know what you intended to do with me, ultimately--”

“You still don’t.” Thorin interrupted suddenly, coming to stand over Bilbo and stare down at him, his dark hair streaming down over his shoulders, his harsh face shadowy in the darkness of the forge.

Bilbo gazed back up at him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, the Hobbit asked meekly, “So what do you intend?”

“To keep you forever.” Thorin answered instantly, and his thin lips turned up at the corners in the slightest of smiles.

“Do you, now?” Bilbo breathed, relieved and unnerved at the same time.

“Mm.” Thorin murmured affirmatively, bringing a rough hand up to scrape across the back of his lover’s neck. He massaged it for a moment, leaning down to bring their foreheads together. Bilbo closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

After a comforting moment, the dwarf drew back. “All I am telling you is that you must decide now.”

“But, I mean… no one can predict the future,” Bilbo tried to explain. “I mean, I want to be with you. Yes. Yes, forever, even. I mean. I. I came back to you because I … I just want to be with you always. But…”

Thorin listened patiently.

“But. Erebor, and the crown and the throne and the politics…. All the things that could go wrong, and… I mean… I can promise, but what if the time comes that I am just terribly, terribly unhappy?” Bilbo asked miserably.

Thorin stared down at him. “You must trust me to make the decision for you.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “What, you mean, just put my life in your hands as if I were a slave again??”

“You will not have to do the laundry.” Thorin promised.

“Oh, yes, that’s very funny, Thorin. But—“

“But look,” Thorin finally said rather impatiently. He scooped Bilbo up off the chair and sat down there himself, cradling the Hobbit in his lap. “I am asking you to trust me. I will ensure you are able to visit the Shire occasionally. I will be good to you. I will keep your happiness in mind. All I am saying is, if you come with me, you must commit to being a part of my life and helping me rule Erebor.”

Bilbo bit his lip and thought. Put that way, it didn’t sound so much like what it had sounded like a moment ago: like he was agreeing to hand his freedom over to Thorin again. He sat on the warm lap and gazed up at the intent face looking down at him. The large hands held him firmly. What if Thorin went mad again, became abusively, psychotically possessive again? What if he made Bilbo a slave again and chained him to the wall?

Bilbo felt a thrill go through him. Surely that wasn’t excitement? He tamped it down in mortification. Truly, he was a damaged, unwell Hobbit if the thought of being enslaved by his mad lover was more appealing than… spending long years alone in his tidy little house eating six meals a day, cleaning up after, working in the garden, and occasionally visiting his cousin Lobelia.

Thorin brought a gentle hand up to his lover’s throat and caressed it with increasing pressure. “Lean back,” he whispered, and Bilbo melted back onto the strong arm that held him, and let his head fall back passively. Thorin buried his face in that warm neck, rubbing his beard against it and kissing ardently. Soon his arms were tightening around the Hobbit like a vise, and Bilbo reveled in the possessive grip.

“Yes, then… yes…” he gasped. “Thorin, yes. I’ll … I’ll do as you say.”

Thorin brought his lips to his captive’s mouth and kissed him long and thoroughly, running his rough hands through the soft curls, biting lightly and then soothing with licks and kisses until Bilbo was squirming on his lap. 

Fili came back and interrupted them, glancing away with embarrassment, but clearly with a message to impart. “Gandalf is waiting out front. He has ponies.”

Bilbo struggled out of Thorin’s grasp. “What, NOW? I’m not… I mean, there are things from my home I should get,” he protested.

“We’ll send for them,” Thorin promised, and released his lover. “Help me with these trunks, Nephew,” he said.

Before he knew it, Bilbo was on a pony on the cobblestone street before the Durin Forge, waving goodbye to Fili mournfully. And they were returning to Erebor, and the gold, and the Arkenstone, and the possibility that his lover would go mad again. 

The Took side of Bilbo’s heritage was clearly the predominant strain.


	6. King Thorin

The ponies, apparently, were only a temporary measure to get their luggage from the forge to the fortress of the Broadbeam clan, in the poshest section of Belegost. According to Gandalf, they were apparently eager to finance Thorin’s return to the throne. Thorin regarded the wooden gate to their lair with some cynicism as their gatesman sent word to the manor; they had not donated very much on his initial venture, nor evidenced much faith in his success. 

But now, it seemed, they would rather Thorin return and be King Under the Mountain, than let the Iron Hills dwarves expand their dynasty. Their interest may have been explained, in part, by a recent link of marriage to a nephew of Oin and Gloin. It would perhaps be worth some bragging rights to be able to mention that their son-in-law’s cousins were related to the King of Erebor.

Once inside the gate, Thorin was greeted heartily in the courtyard by Durin Broadbeam himself, a huge dwarf of golden-red coloring who waddled expansively when he walked.

“Thorin Oakenshield! Glad you’ve finished your little rest-up!” He roared, and hugged the rather grim looking ironsmith. “Come in, come in. Have your man lead the ponies around back,” he said, gesturing to Bilbo. Oh, that’s how it’s going to be, eh? Bilbo thought. 

Gandalf gave Bilbo a quick shake of the head and handed the reins of his pony to the gate guard. “Just take the reins of the other two and follow him,” the wizard instructed quietly. “We’ll straighten it out later.”

Seething, Bilbo led the ponies behind the gate guard. Thorin glanced back at him in consternation, but Gandalf seemed to draw him and their host toward the front door. “I’m interested to hear your ideas about the historical precedent of the sort of entourage you envisioned,” he said to Master Broadbeam, and soon they were in the door. Bilbo was left alone in the courtyard with three ponies and the gate guard.

After the ponies were lodged in the Broadbeam stable, Bilbo found himself a bench to sit on and smoke his pipe. It calmed his temper, and after a while he found himself looking about and musing that he would miss the Blue Mountains. The lifestyle here was quite different than the Lonely Mountain. Erebor was the result of natural caves and hollows leading down to the gold mines. The dwarves had widened and improved upon them, but it was the reason that the majority of the living spaces were inside the mountain. That, and protection. The mountain stood quite alone and exposed.

The Blue Mountains community, however, were not quite so subterranean. Because they were smaller, yet more numerous, much of the community was actually in the valleys between, and while homes were built tunneling into the mountainside, many homes and shops had fronts into the valley. Like the forge, like this compound here. It had been a nice compromise for the Hobbit, for Thorin’s living quarters were inside the mountain, but the storefront opened out onto a street outside. There were no windows in most abodes (and for most of Bilbo and Thorin’s alone time, it was rather nice to know that their privacy was so thoroughly assured.) But by day, he could get sunshine without having to go through a maze of tunnels, as he did in Erebor.

The Hobbit sighed around his pipe. Yes. He would miss the Blue Mountains. Would he miss the Shire, he asked himself. Well, a bit, perhaps. Might be wise to simply have the majority of his nicer furnishings transported to Erebor. Oh, the time and expense… perhaps he should just give the lot to Lobelia and be done with it, he mused rather bitterly.

“Bilbo,” said the wizard, behind him.

The Hobbit turned his head. “Oh, come to the servant’s quarters, have you?” He remarked. Gandalf sat down heavily beside him.

“Now, now,” he said absently. His old eyes were scanning the courtyard. Then they seemed to clear, and return to his little friend beside him. “Are you certain you don’t want to be rescued after all?” He asked, teasing a little.

Bilbo gave a bit of a snort. He was feeling rather sorry for himself, it seemed.

“We’ll be on our way shortly,” Gandalf assured him. “Master Broadbeam brought it to my attention that the King Under the Mountain should return with some dignity. He’s being quite generous. You’ll have a sizable escort, in uniforms.”

“Oh my, uniforms,” Bilbo murmured, unimpressed.

“Comfortable coach for traveling in,” Gandalf added with a side glance.

Bilbo perked up a bit. A coach? No ponies?

“Rather a lavish inventory of supplies, food stuffs and all. Tents. Cushions…” the wizard continued.

The Hobbit tapped the ash out of his pipe. “Does sound rather less strenuous than the usual traveling experience,” he admitted.

“Not as convenient as hopping on an eagle, of course,” Gandalf admitted with a twinkle.

“Oh, never again,” Bilbo said firmly, shuddering. “Never, ever again.”

“Yes, that was the eagle’s view of the matter as well. Apparently you pulled out several of his feathers.”

Bilbo, wiping off his pipe, settled for giving his tall friend a telling glare.

After a moment of companionable silence, Bilbo reviewed the exact wording of Gandalf’s observations on their mode of travel. He’d said, “you’ll have a sizeable escort,” … not “we’ll have.”

“You aren’t coming with us?” He asked curiously.

Gandalf sighed, eyes once again on far-off visions. “No, indeed, my friend. I have already meddled enough in Thorin Oakenshield’s life. At this point, I could be accused of changing history.” He smiled at some secret thought. Then he grew sober. “Though I could also definitely be accused of having not meddled enough in yours.”

“Ho-ho-ho!” Bilbo said, before his manners re-asserted themselves and he lowered his voice. “And how do you come to that conclusion?” He asked, amazed.

Gandalf gazed down at him from under the shadow of his battered hat. “I should have saved you from Smaug,” he said simply. “If I had known, Bilbo. If I had known.”

“Oh,” Bilbo was actually a little ashamed of his sarcastic outburst. “Well. It was only four years.”

They looked at each other and smiles broke over their faces, and few chuckles escaped them both.

“Ah yes. Only four years enslaved to a dragon, well. I suppose…” Gandalf let the remark trail off and the sounds of hooves clopping drew their attention to the stables. From around the corner came what looked like a small army of dwarves on horseback, dressed in battle gear, their horses and shields trimmed in blue and silver.

Bilbo stood up, startled. “That’s our entourage?” He asked in disbelief, watching them fall into formation.

Gandalf gazed on with satisfaction. “Part of it. Twelve there, and there’ll be two more with the coach, and servants leading the supply-bearers will follow. Ah, there is the coach.”

The Hobbit looked on with a certain amount of dismay. He’d rather absorbed the notion that their journey back would be a quiet affair that would give him time to re-adjust to their new roles in life. It looked now, however, as though their new roles were beginning immediately.

Even as he thought it, from around the front of the house came King Thorin. There was no other way to put it. The simple, coarsely-woven clothes of the ironsmith were gone, and though he wore no crown, the velvets and jewels and highly polished ceremonial armor Thorin wore was very much of the sort he’d worn at Erebor.

Bilbo stared. His heart sped up quite a bit. He wasn’t sure exactly why, just that… that… Thorin the Ironsmith had been so much a partner. A lover. A bedmate. A playmate even. 

But Thorin the King had been intense, often stern and demanding, even before the gold-sickness had set in. Bilbo had been an equal in the Durin forge, helping Fili in the shop, sharing chores and tasks, fussing over Thorin’s diet. Only in their private games was he still the helpless slave who submitted to whatever his master desired. 

In Erebor, it hadn’t been a game. And they were going back to Erebor. And the King was already looking over at Bilbo with his eyebrows raised as if to indicate that he should put his pipe away and come quickly. Now.

The Hobbit turned back to give Gandalf one more rather serious look. Yes, he thought. Perhaps you have meddled quite enough. And then, tucking his pipe into his pocket, Bilbo went forward to greet his king, who was still consulting with Master Broadbeam.

Thorin gestured Bilbo wordlessly into the coach, very much as if he were a valet or … or a child. Something. The Hobbit controlled his urge to huff an irritated sigh, and stepped up onto the running board with some difficulty, hauling himself in.

Inside, the seats were lined with furs, and Bilbo made himself comfortable. He gazed out of the open side and played nervously with his handkerchief. Finally, Thorin and his wealthy patron clapped each other on the shoulder, touched foreheads, and parted. Thorin entered the coach, settled himself and his velvets, and reached up to slap the side as signal to the driver. There was a lurch, and then they were rolling forward over the cobblestones.

Bilbo leaned forward for a last glimpse of Gandalf, who stood with both hands on his staff, watching them depart with satisfaction. Then the Hobbit looked up at Thorin. His king was lost in thought, staring broodingly at the new rings on his fingers. Already, Bilbo could feel the distance between them.


	7. An Unexpected Element of the Journey

To Bilbo’s immense relief, Thorin directed their entourage to take a course that brought them near the Shire. They camped overnight on the plains, and then arrived before lunch the next day. The majority of the party waited on the edge of town, as they did not wish to descend upon the Hobbits en masse, and several servants accompanied Bilbo to his home and packed up possessions enough to meet his most immediate needs, and soothe some of his fears.

Hobbits from all over the neighborhood came to watch the proceedings, and Bilbo made certain to notify his lawyer of his plans. There was plenty of elbow-nudging about the Shire as the glowering dwarf servants loaded up Bilbo’s luggage. See? Off again, he was. Back to where the dragon kept him. That dragon left him some treasure, you watch and see. There’s more to that story, yes indeed, was the general consensus.

And after Bilbo had bade good-bye to some of the folk from his youth, they were back on their journey again.

When they were underway, Thorin made an effort not to brood too much to pay attention to his uneasy lover.

“Did you get all the china you were so fond of?” He asked amusedly, as the coach rocked gently back and forth.

“No, I left instructions with my lawyer,” Bilbo admitted. “China doesn’t travel well, and those dwarves packed like speed was more important than safety.”

Thorin chuckled. “They are accustomed to metal and leather.”

“I brought mostly clothes. Some sentimental things,” Bilbo said, watching the trees pass by outside.

The king reached over suddenly and put a be-ringed hand over the Hobbit’s hand. “I will provide anything you need,” he told Bilbo earnestly, and for a moment, he was Thorin the Ironsmith again. Bilbo gazed up at him lovingly, grateful for the three months that they had been equals. 

When Thorin had first found Bilbo huddled on the abandoned furs in the corner of his quarters, dirty and thin, dressed in rags, he’d regarded him as little more than a lowly pet. But the king’s downfall and his return to the forge had coincided with Bilbo’s rise and re-instatement as an upper middle class Hobbit with hemmed handkerchiefs, clean, well-fitting clothes, and some rather finely-crafted toiletries that had gradually made their way into Thorin’s living space. Their social trajectories had brought them to an equal plane, and in helping Thorin and Fili with the business aspect of the smithy, the Hobbit’s education had also become apparent. 

Bilbo hoped that some element of their partnership would survive Thorin’s return to the throne. 

They held hands for some minutes before Thorin, gazing down at their clasped hands, fell to brooding again about the wrongs he must right, and the image he must be careful to project. The fine rings on his fingers contrasted with the grimy stains that several months of work had imprinted, and it would be some time before his hands looked truly clean again.

Not that any dwarf wanted the delicate hands of an elf. Mahal, no. But the callouses of wielding a weapon were one thing. Dirt worked into the fingerprints was something else. Thorin withdrew his hand and pulled his rings off, and then went rummaging through the bundle of toiletries they’d kept in the carriage until he found the blue bottle.

He poured some oil into his hands and began rubbing, scowling at his hands. Bilbo sat next to him and tried not to associate the scent with, well… so many of their nocturnal activities.

After a moment, he saw Thorin was smirking at him. “Smell?” He offered, putting his fingers under the Hobbit’s nose. 

Bilbo could not help but smile. “Stop,” he said, leaning away. 

Thorin returned to rubbing his hands, but now his eyes were on his lover. “We have a long journey ahead of us,” he said. “Spending our nights in a tent,” he added, and leaned over. “A little privacy. Not much. You’ll have to learn to accept my attentions very quietly.”

“Attentions…? On the journey?” Bilbo asked, rather shocked.

“Oh, I don’t think I can leave you alone for that many weeks. Not with you right here by my side, looking as though you think you can get away with anything,” Thorin whispered into the pointed ear.

Bilbo gave a little shiver, still smelling the oil. 

“I’ll have to think of silent ways to keep you in line,” the dwarf breathed, sliding his oiled hand around his lover’s neck and nibbling on that ear. Soon Bilbo was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, and tugging at his pants to make a bit more room for himself.

Thorin chuckled and leaned back. “Yes,” he admitted, reaching to adjust his own clothing a bit. “I’d better put this oil away before I’m forced to make you ride on my lap with your trousers about your knees and my hand over your mouth.” He glanced about wickedly. “The bouncing of the carriage would do my work for me, eventually. You’d just have to ride with me inside you for as long as it took.” He gave Bilbo a dark look. “Perhaps if I took you in hand, I could make you work yourself on me until I was satisfied.”

Listening to Thorin describe it painted quite a picture in Bilbo’s head. And with guards all about them! All one would have to do is draw abreast of the carriage and glance in, and… no, no. 

“That would not be proper,” Bilbo said, his face flushed. 

“No indeed,” Thorin remarked, staring down at him meaningfully. “Imagine how shocked a guard would be to look in and see you, naked from waist to knees, your wrists tied to your thighs and my hand between them, stroking you just a bit too slowly. You bouncing on my cock, squirming, my hand over your mouth, my legs between yours, spreading yours wide…”

Bilbo’s face was bright red now, and he drew a fur over his erection, mortified at the image Thorin described. Well, mortified and aroused.

“It would take a long time,” Thorin continued, staring down at his flushed Hobbit. “Perhaps I’d have to gag you with some cloth so that both of my hands could be free. I’d wrap one arm around your waist and push you down on my cock all the way to the hilt.”

Bilbo swallowed, eyes wide. He glanced out both sides to ensure no one was close enough to hear.

“Then I’d squeeze you and stroke you till you were leaking, but I would not let you have release until I had my own. How those hips would work. Your head would drop back on my shoulder and your eyes would close, and you would not care who was staring in. You’d push yourself down on me again and again, trying to escape my fingers, and it would go on and on.”

Bilbo was licked his lips and found that he couldn’t get enough air unless he breathed through his mouth. Thorin gave him a fierce grin and reached up to signal to the coachman to stop. The horses were drawn up and the entire entourage came to a halt.

“Call of nature,” Thorin explained carelessly, and guided Bilbo out of the carriage and into the trees until they found a thick bit of brush. Thus concealed, Bilbo found himself quickly prepared, and then pushed down on his king’s demanding cock just as Thorin had described, squirming on it, biting his lips to keep silent, while the dwarf fingered him roughly and expertly.

“Ride,” Thorin whispered urgently, and Bilbo pushed his hips back, glorying in the feel of the thickness sliding deep into him. The dwarf slapped one hand over the Hobbit’s mouth, squeezing his face and stroking his tool quickly and masterfully, until Bilbo came with a desperate writhe, and behind him, he felt his lover stiffen also, burying his face in Bilbo’s hair for a long, breathless moment.

Shortly after, they emerged separately, seemingly from slightly different places, and the guards, who had also wandered off to relieve their own various needs, returned and remounted.

When Thorin and Bilbo were back in the carriage, Bilbo sat down a little gingerly. But at least he was relaxed now. Really, who cared what happened to that china? He and Thorin exchanged rather shame-faced grins that grew into chuckles, that finally became silent, breathless laughter.

Finally, when they calmed, Thorin said, “And in only three hours, we’ll camp for the night. We’ll eat. And then we’ll enter the royal tent. But I could not wait three hours once I had smelled that oil,” he admitted with a disbelieving grin. 

Smiling to themselves, they settled back to watch the landscape go by. Soon they would be on the plains.


	8. Camp

As Thorin had foretold, they made camp when the twilight descended, blue and still. They were on the edge of the plains. Their guards and servants, well-trained in maneuvers, set up camp with several tents provided by the Broadbeam clan. Thorin noted with some amusement that, while the Durin colors of blue, white, and gold were predominant, the Broadbeam symbol – silver crossed axes – was a conspicuous motif on the sides of the tents, the shields of the guards, the banners driven into the earth to mark the four corners of the encampment.

Thranduil himself would have looked on with the narrowed eyes of the vaguely threatened.

And yet, Thorin mused, as he strode about the encampment, noting with pleasure the symmetrical placement of the tents, the high, bold leaping of the campfire flames… there was something satisfying in traveling this way. Not a rag-tag team of adventurers, but a well-financed politician traveling with comfort and convenience. A staff of servants saw to the rations and meals, pitched the tents and rolled out the cushions and furs, and stoked the fires.

The king consulted with the captain of the guards as to the route, the speed, the supplies, the schedule. Bilbo went about looking for the steward to direct the making of the tea, the scones, to indicate what sort of meal the king would prefer. It was all quite civilized. It was the sort of civilization only possible with a hierarchy, Thorin thought. Equality was all very well, but organization and display was not the strong point of the common dwarf.

And he was no common dwarf, had never been. Oh, he’d operated as one well enough when he had to. But it wasn’t what he was bred for. In fact… that he could operate that well was evidence enough of his breeding, he realized. For a well-bred King could fulfill a commoner’s role if need be. But a commoner would find it much more difficult to fill the shoes of a king. Fill them well.

Here, he sobered. _Fill them well._

Thorin turned away from the blazing campfires and stared into the blue vastness of the sky over the deep gray plains. He had not filled the shoes of a king very well on his first trial. Oh, he had led his men through hardship, battle, and fire. But once they had reached safety, he had atrophied into stasis. Seeing the piles of gold, his only thought had been to keep, to hoard, to protect, to guard.

He must not let that instinct take over again. Desperately, he hoped Gandalf was right when he said that Dain Ironfoot would welcome his return, would hand over the reins, take his still-young, recalcitrant son back to the Iron Hills, and let Thorin grow into the role he had been groomed for.

And that this time, he would do it right.

He glanced over at the Hobbit, who was standing near a fire at the entrance of the royal tent, nodding at the steward who was bringing in the tea. Thorin was fairly certain he had done right in keeping Bilbo at his side. Bilbo was an organized, civilized creature with just enough bite to stand up for himself, and just enough bend to please his king. The only two dangers were… well…. One was that the dwarves would not accept a Hobbit in such an intimate position. Not the sex, no. The influence. The commitment. Dwarves wouldn’t care if he was fucking a goat, as long as the goat wasn’t making policy. The other danger, of course, was obsession. But obsession, Thorin suspected, only traveled with threat. If you are threatened with the loss of a treasure, you became obsessed. If you were never threatened, security soothed that instinct.

At least, that was what Thorin hoped. As regarded Bilbo, and the Arkenstone, they were secure. The Arkenstone was in the throne, and Bilbo would be in his bed. The gold was merely an operational tool now. Not shimmering in fairytale piles, but spent, converted, stored…. Nothing but numbers on a scroll now.

Thorin took a deep breath. _You will be fine,_ he told himself. _You will do well. This is just transition, just a new stage in your life. You can do this. It’s what you were bred for._

 

Bilbo, inside the tent, looked around in satisfaction. The lanterns sat on trunks, burning brightly. A tea service sat on another trunk covered with a small sheet of dark blue satin. The royal cot, wide and thick, was rolled out and covered with furs and blankets. The weapons were laid out by the side of it, in case of an attack during the night. That was more custom than any real thought of a threat. Middle Earth was peaceful enough, currently.

He waited for his … what? His lover? His king? His partner? Bilbo wondered, not for the first time, what “they” were now. What HE was now. Because there was no doubt what Thorin was: he was a king. Born to it, bred to it, invited to it, welcomed to it… so welcomed as to be invited to return.

But what was the Hobbit? Not a slave anymore, of course. But … what?

The entrance to the tent was folded neatly aside and the firelight outside shone in briefly as Thorin entered, wide-shouldered and weighted down with armor and fabric and furs. Bilbo stepped forward. “Can I just…?” He held his hands out, and Thorin smiled warmly down at him.

“Help me out of my cumbersome costume?” He suggested, and between the two of them, they divested the dwarf of his regal drapery until finally, with a sigh, he sank down to sit on a stool across the small table from his Hobbit, simply attired in shirt and breeches (albeit of fine cloth and cut) and they were able to partake of their dinner.

“So,” Bilbo said cautiously. “They know you are coming?”

“Mm. Gandalf assures me they expected it before I did,” Thorin said drily, nibbling on a bit of fruit.

“And,” the Hobbit asked casually, spreading the jam on his bread, “do they know I am coming?”

“Oh, I am given to understand that if you had not come, Ori would have gone into a depression. Apparently he has issues that he can only discuss with you.” Thorin said with a smile.

Bilbo was grateful, but he was concerned about more than just the company of dwarves that he knew was faithful to Thorin.

“And the dwarf population in general? I mean, the ones who don’t actually know—“ he almost said “us” but lost his nerve, “—me?”

Thorin raised his eyes and directed them piercingly at his Hobbit from under the straight, bushy brows. “You are with me. They will accept it, or they will be taught to.”

That made a nice, warm feeling fill Bilbo’s nervous little soul. But it was still a bit unclear. He was “with the king.” Yes. Good. But. In what capacity.

“How will you… I mean, what will they…think… I am?” Bilbo managed.

Thorin shrugged, and then his eyes flicked over Bilbo’s plate. “Are you finished eating? I would like some of your undivided attention.”

Bilbo took a quick drink of his wine, feeling his stomach warm immediately. Such an open-ended invitation as that indicated that his lover wanted Bilbo to direct the evening’s beginning. He knew his role well enough to know that sometimes, Thorin knew exactly what he wanted. Such as the day he’d introduced his new bondage toy with the beads. On such evenings, there was no question but that Bilbo was to simply obey and experience whatever Thorin had in mind. 

But other nights, Thorin was eager for loving, but awaiting inspiration. On such nights, Bilbo was allowed to take the lead, and be subservient, or defiant, or clingy, or evasive, or whatever he pleased until Thorin was aroused enough to take over the narrative and punish, or reassure, or dominate, or chase… whatever game developed.

Tonight was clearly such a night. And yet, they were in a tent. Guards all around. They must be quiet, or face knowing looks and smirks in the morning. Bilbo felt a buzz of excitement in his tummy.

Well. First of all, he knew, Thorin loved to have his hair played with. Loved to lay with his head in Bilbo’s lap and let those Hobbity fingers work their magic. He also loved to roll over, bury his face in his slave’s lap, and tease him with lips and tongue until his Hobbit was begging and squirming and grabbing the royal head in absolute desperation.

Bilbo suspected that Thorin would enjoy the added onus of absolute silence while he tormented his lover.


	9. Rivendell

The journey continued over the next several days without incident. Bilbo fell into a habit of eating a great deal and sleeping when he was bored, and soon became proficient at dozing even as the coach bounced over rough terrain. Thorin encouraged this tendency, as the plumper Bilbo was, the smoother his skin, the rounder those buttocks, and the easier his temperament. Not that the Hobbit was particularly temperamental. But traveling, even under such prestigious banners, was tiresome.

As for the dwarf king, he regularly left his lover napping in the coach and commandeered a pony from one of the guards, letting said guard stand behind the coach so that the once and future king could gallop up ahead and peer at the open road.

“We will not visit Rivendell,” Thorin decided, upon seeing the delicate spires off to the east of their path. He disliked Elves too much to wish to refurbish their supplies there.

The Captain of the Guard evinced a tentative hope of dispute. “We shall have no other place to replenish,” he pointed out. “The Misty Mountains are full of Orcs. They are not friendly.”

That was an understatement. Thorin sighed unhappily. “Elves are not always friendly either. They very much enjoy knowing the exact nature of your business so that they may interfere on the slightest pretext.”

“Mirkwood Elves are certainly of that sort,” the Captain agreed, and then added tactfully, “Rivendell Elves aren’t as bad…”

Thorin held the reins of his pony doubtfully. “Are we so low on supplies?” He asked.

“Not alarmingly.... More the luxuries than the staples. Tea, sugar…” the guard opined.

Thorin sighed. Bilbo loved tea. The Elves could sell them more tea. Thorin hated Elves. Did he hate Elves more than he wanted Bilbo to have his tea? The king ground his teeth. “Do the men want to have a brief sojourn in Rivendell?”

The Captain brightened hopefully. “Just a short one would be a bit of a treat,” he admitted. Thorin exhaled through his nostrils. Cursed Elves… but he had promised himself he would be a better king. And trade with Elves was part of it. Hate them though he did.

Finally, practically eating his own teeth, Thorin gave permission for the entourage to bend its path toward Rivendell, and break their journey for some two nights. Replenish. Rest. Eat green food, knowing the Elves.

The Captain gave a salute and, with a tug on the reins, fell back to notify his men of the upcoming arrangements.

When Bilbo awoke, evening was settling. He sat up from his bed of furs, stretching. If there was one thing he’d learned in four years of slavery to Orcs and Dragons, it was how to burrow into a nest of fur and lose consciousness. He emerged now, expecting that they would soon be stopping to set up camp.

In fact, Bilbo thought as he squinted out at the settling dusk, they should have stopped already. It’s hard to pitch a tent in the dark. But as he leaned out and peered ahead, the Hobbit was diverted by the sight of an upcoming city the sight of which he’d never beheld before. In the gathering blue of early evening, a narrow valley opened up in the foothills of the approaching mountains. And within that valley, almost hidden from the plains, a vista of faintly sparkling lights appeared.

Bilbo blinked disbelievingly. As they drew nearer, a cityscape of towering, intricate spires became visible through a wispy, almost magical veil of mist. The formations were uniform, lofty yet fragile, terrible yet graceful. 

“What is… is this Rivendell?” He asked the nearest dwarf guard, who nodded.

“I didn’t even know that it was a real place,” Bilbo said. “I thought it was legend!”

From behind him came Thorin’s baritone voice, “They are a legend in their own minds, certainly.”

Bilbo looked back to see his king drawing up on one of the ponies. He gave Thorin a smile and then turned back to stare at the dramatic peaks of the looming city. “But it’s beautiful. I never thought I’d see it!”

Thorin gave a wry quirk of his thin lips. “I am happy to have arranged this delight for you,” he said.

Bilbo didn’t note the sarcasm at all. His eyes were too busy drinking in the glittering towers that they were soon to pass between. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life,” he breathed. “It’s wonderous,” he sighed admiringly.

Thorin’s face was tightening the way it did when he was trying not to sneer. “If you like vines, lattice, and waterfalls.”

Bilbo didn’t respond, being too busy staring in every direction at once.

“How did they even do this? I mean… it seems to grow right up out of the mountainside like… like flowers!”

Thorin rolled his eyes and breathed deeply.

“Are we going to stay here for a few days?” Bilbo asked, clearly excited.

“Yes,” his king replied shortly, and chucked the reins on his pony, galloping past, his hair flying back. Bilbo admired him briefly, his heart warm with contentment. Then he went back to staring around at the delicate, soaring architecture, and the perfect cleanliness of the streets they were now rolling along. It was magical.

Thorin and a delegate went to present themselves at the offices of the Counsel to make formal greetings (and reassurances of peaceful intent) and inquire about lodgings, supplies, and food. Real food, if possible. Not leaves.

They were greeted by an emissary of King Elrond, who had been alerted by Gandalf that the “army of dwarves” that would soon pass through was merely escorting King Thorin back to the Lonely Mountain. The dwarf king chafed to know that Gandalf had predicted they would be compelled to stop in Rivendell. 

“Welcome, King Under the Mountain,” said the emissary who awaited them on the white curved steps that lead to the rotunda. He was a tall, skinny elf with long dark hair. Thorin glowered up at him and then tried to mask his irritation with a look of pained patience.

“Thank you for your warm welcome,” he said, not knowing exactly how to address the creature. It hadn’t volunteered its name. 

The Elf smirked down at him. “King Elrond has arranged for a wing of the royal guest quarters to be set aside for your party,” and gestured gracefully for them to follow. Uncomfortable at the prospect of owing the Elves for their hospitality, but unable to squirm out of it, Thorin nodded and followed their contact up the stone steps of the public entrance, through the soaring lobby to the counsel offices that fronted the palace, and then through them. After a long and confusing trail to the rather open and leafy corridors leading to the guest facilities, he was eventually familiarized with the quarters allotted them for their visit.

At least there was a large bed in a private room for himself and Bilbo. That would help make up for the fact that they’d spend the next two days eating plants and making small talk with various minor dignitaries, all of whom would find an oblique way to inquire about the status of the little Hobbit who traveled with the Dwarf King. Thorin sighed. “He’s my lover,” he imagined roaring down a long dinner table full of startled Elves and Dwarves. “He was my slave, but I beat him and fucked him till he liked it, and now he’s my lover! Pass the chopped roots!”

No, Bilbo wouldn’t appreciate that summary. Thorin glanced around moodily, waiting for his party to join him. Two days here, and then no more Elves.


	10. Hospitality

Bilbo was soaking in a hot bath. He couldn’t stop gazing around at him. Even the bathtub, with its pearly curved lip and curled silver legs, dazzled him. The bathing chamber alone was worth Thorin’s wretched mood. Unlike Erebor’s dark vaulted ceilings and stately golden touches, the Elven décor was light and airy, with a tendency toward sandstone, greenery, and delicate touches of silver that seemed to almost drip down, as if the candle holders were melting along with the candles. It was captivating. And it always seemed that one could hear water running somewhere, soothing and fresh.

Thorin hated every inch of it. He finished dressing for dinner in vivid blue velvet and jewels, and then threw himself onto the bed as if hoping the fragile legs would collapse beneath him. But of course they did not. He picked through the dish of dainties that his host had sent up on a silver tray. What was this? Sugared walnuts? Tiny slivers of cheese with more smell than bulk? Cranberries?? Thorin snorted and scooped up a handful, hoping that he could make up with quantity what the food lacked in substance.

Bilbo finally came wandering out of the bathing chamber, wrapped in a towel, hair curling freshly, trailing water on the stone floor. He looked sleepy-eyed and satisfied. “Oh, they sent up snacks,” he said approvingly.

“They seem to think we have a rabbit,” Thorin grumbled.

Bilbo smiled and picked at the trail mix. “Ooo, this one’s chocolate.”

Thorin drummed his be-ringed fingers silently on the gray silk bedspread. “If you will dress yourself, we can go down to dine with the Royal Court. I’m told they will actually serve something that once had eyes.”

Bilbo winced at this way of putting it, and quickly turned to pick through his luggage and find something clean, and not too wrinkled.

“I’d settle for some nice, toasted biscuits,” he admitted.

“I want meat.” Thorin said flatly, and heaved himself off the bed again to prowl to the window and look down over the endless vista of vines, lattice, waterfalls, and spiky towers. “I wonder what Elf tastes like,” he muttered.

Bilbo grinned, “Dry and salty.” He suggested.

Thorin smirked back at him. “Not as tender as Hobbit, I’m sure.”

Bilbo wiggled his bare behind at his king and then quickly pulled his trousers up over it. “Who’ll be at this dinner, do you think?”

Thorin sighed. “I’m told it’s mostly traveling parties like ours, and a few delegates from neighboring communities. Elves, Dwarves, a few humans. Dain Ironfoot has sent someone to meet us,” he added, looking contemplative.

Bilbo brightened. Might it be one of “their” dwarves? He hoped. “Do you know who?”

Thorin shook his head, his blue eyes narrowing as he gazed out at the mountain range. He was slightly uneasy about the tone of the note that the Elven servant had brought to their suite whilst Bilbo was cooking himself in the tub. It was rather formal, indicating that Thane Ironfoot (as it was signed) had sent a small party of representatives to dine with him, indicating solidarity among strangers (that was good) and a desire to converse with him over the course of the evening (that was bad.)

If the message were merely, “Welcome back, see you in a week or so,” the emissary would have undoubtedly asked permission to come to the suite. They’d greet, touch foreheads, slap backs, have some ale, and go down together. 

But the emissary wanted to converse over dinner. That usually meant mildly unpleasant news that was best delivered with food and drink, and enough witnesses to suppress a Dwarf’s urge to roar oaths. Thorin was brooding already.

Bilbo, noting this, turned to the nearest mirror, scrunched his hair and smoothed his jacket, buttoned his buttons, and folded his handkerchief so it poked neatly out of his pocket in a little triangle. Then he bent over to brush at the curly hairs of his feet. When he straightened again, Thorin had turned from the window and was admiring him.

“You’re very flexible,” he commented in a soft growl.

Bilbo gave him a glance from the corners of his eye. “The more you work me, the more limber I get,” he suggested.

Thorin bit his lower lip. “Mind you be good at dinner, or you’ll spend the evening with your legs over your arms, and your wrists tied to your neck. And me with a strap and a feather testing to see which makes you beg harder.”

Bilbo experienced a wave of dizziness and vowed silently to be… just a little bad at dinner. He gave Thorin another cheeky glance and turned to the door.

“I suppose you think you frighten me,” he said boldly. And then turned and walked out the door without so much as a by-your-leave. Thorin gave a nasty smile and followed him. _Liked that idea, did you?_ He thought. _Very well, then._


	11. Dinner, More or Less

The Elven dining hall was a masterpiece of pointed arches, tumbling greenery, glittering crystal, and shining silver. Elegant place cards directed the guests to their seats, and as was tradition, couples were separated so as to give them someone new to talk to at dinner. Bilbo was actually heartened to find that he and Thorin were seated some distance from each other. Not that he wanted to be separated from his king for a moment, he did not. But it seemed to acknowledge that they were a couple.

He was elevated beyond mere satisfaction, however, to find that he was placed quite startlingly near King Elrond (that was an honor) and next to one of the Dwarves who had accompanied King Dain’s messenger to Rivendell. They took their seats and Bilbo gazed to his right for a moment to admire the Elven King. His face was not handsome, but rather intense and wise, and he gave the Hobbit a gracious nod and a slight smile.

Bilbo nodded back, pleased but a bit flustered, and then turned to peruse the Dwarf at his other side. He had dancing dark eyes, a long, drooping brown mustache, and his hair was slicked back rather awkwardly from a forehead that was markedly lighter than the rest of his face. As if it had never seen sunlight.

“So,” said the Dwarf, gazing down at Bilbo with satisfaction. “You’ve come back for more cookies.”

Bilbo’s jaw dropped open. The Dwarf leaned in close and whispered, “I may start using them as bait!”

“Oh my stars!!” Bilbo squeaked, and managed to control himself enough to do no more than twist in his seat and grab the Dwarf’s sleeve in both hands. “I didn’t know you! I didn’t know you without the hat!!” He gasped in joy.

“….What hat?” Bofur asked with a perfectly straight face, before both he and Bilbo were grinning at each other like fools.

“What hat indeed… what hat…” Bilbo sputtered happily, “Did it fly away finally?!”

Bofur gave a chagrined shrug, “Apparently it’s not fit to leave our rooms. Dain’s man said if I want to eat, the hat stays put.”

Bilbo was beside himself, his eyes fairly sparkling with pleasure at the sight of his old friend. Thorin, leaning forward over his place some ways down the table, noted his consort’s glee and felt his stomach twist. He took a deep breath and calmed himself.

“Dain’s man…?” Bilbo asked, and Bofur pointed with his fork at the red-haired Dwarf sitting next to Thorin. “Ah. What’s his name?”

“Groin.” Bofur said, glancing at Bilbo innocently.

“What… GROIN??” Bilbo whispered, scandalized. “No! Seriously?”

“Oh, aye. But that’s just his last name. First name’s Harold. Well, Harry.” Bofur said.

“What--? Harry Groin? You can’t be—you’re teasing me,” Bilbo insisted.

Bofur finally relented. “Nay, his real name’s Dolin. I just want someone, somewhere, named Groin.” 

Bilbo gave a happy hiss of appreciation and settled down to eat. “I have missed you,” he admitted.

“Aye. Pity we’re about to die,” Bofur sighed. “Of starvation,” he added, watching as an Elven servant leaned over him to pile salad onto his plate. 

Bilbo chuckled. “Oh, the Elves seem to survive on this diet.”

“Slow suicide. If we stay here, we’ll soon look like that poor fellow in the corner,” Bofur assured him, glancing over toward an empty corner. 

Bilbo looked. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Aye, well, he turned sideways,” Bofur told him, nodding knowingly.

Bilbo dissolved into giggles, unaware of the steady attention that Thorin, down the table, was directing toward them. Even when he wasn’t looking at his Hobbit, Thorin could hear every whisper and giggle.

Meanwhile, Dolin (never Groin) was delivering Dain Ironfoot’s statement of welcome, encouragement, and a wee bit of advice to the glowering Dwarf beside him, whose blue eyes darkened to match his velvet cloak.

“What?” Thorin bit out.

Dolin shrugged. “Just for a few weeks, first impressions, you know. Dain just feels that the first sight of you should be… noncontroversial. Most of the Dwarves will be relieved to see you again, you know. The squabbling’s getting pretty bad. But there’s always a vocal minority who would seize the opportunity to make a joke, or a point, of that Hobbit.”

“I am not leaving him here alone,” Thorin said stonily, his hands tightening on his silverware.

“Oh, he wouldn’t be alone. Dain said you’d say that, and he completely understands. It’s why Bofur came, so he could stay—“

“NO!” Thorin bellowed, and the entire hall grew silent for a moment as faces turned in his direction. Bilbo froze, not knowing what had happened, but concerned for his lover.

King Elrond gazed down the table, his brows lifting slowly. Then he turned to Bilbo. “Master Baggins,” he said in his deep, deliberate voice, “I have heard a rumor… that you can read a bit of Elven. You must see my library.”

At this hint, the well-bred court resumed conversation, and an Elf across the table from Bilbo remarked audibly to his companion, “How clever he must be.” It was considered rude to talk across the table, but one could show a bit of support in this way, and those in the immediate vicinity took up the topic most steadfastly, and spoke of the importance of reading and maintaining a good library.

Thorin sat quietly, smoke fairly rising from his head. 

Dolin toyed with his fork, having not anticipated an explosion over the salad. “Perhaps… you might send the Hobbit on ahead instead? We could leave in the morning and travel more quickly… He could return with us, quietly, and be there to greet you when you arrive? Privately?”

Thorin was saved from a meltdown by the arrival of trays stacked with steaming venison. He leaned back and let the servant heap the savory dish onto his plate.

“No.” He said more calmly. “Bilbo stays with me.”

Dolin subsided to eating for a bit. Then he said, “We’d be honored, in that case, if we could join your party and return with you.” His wise eyes watched Thorin carefully, but no sign of suspicion crossed the King’s face.

“You would be most welcome,” Thorin said automatically, relieved that Dolin had dropped the topic. Dolin nodded in satisfaction. His mission was to see that Thorin made the kind of entrance that Dain felt would best smooth his return to the throne. If that involved a little sneaky Hobbitnapping later in their journey, well. One does what one must, he mused. This meal was really quite good, he decided, and dug in again.

Meanwhile, Bilbo was still peering down worriedly at his lover. “I wonder what made him react like that,” he mused to Bofur.

Bofur gave an unconcerned glance. “I think they offered him more salad.”

Bilbo couldn’t prevent himself from snickering again. Oh, he had missed his Dwarf friends. He was startled to find that … he actually liked them better than his fellow Hobbits, by and large. Well, he thought, probably for the best, in that he was committed to living with them now.

After their meal, Bilbo was disconcerted to see Groin—that is, Dolin—leading Thorin off a ways to “consult,” and Bofur ordered to join them. The Hobbit stood rather alone and forlorn as the Dwarves ambled away from him, toward a long, candle-lit conservatory.

It was Elrond, the king, who saw the awkward social situation, and stepped forward to invite his guest to come see the aforementioned library. Bilbo lit up immediately.

“Oh, well! Thank you, I—yes! Yes, that would be lovely!” He accompanied the tall, willow-thin king from the dining hall. “I did pick up a bit of Elven when I was captive of Smaug, the dragon. He found some books and made me read them to him some evenings,” he said, chattering rather nervously. “Can even decipher a few Orcan signs, but I don’t think they were very literarily inclined,” he added.

Elrond smiled down at his funny little guest. “It’s rare to find anyone outside of our community who takes an interest in our ways,” he commented mildly in his smooth, dark voice.

“Oh! Well. As for that! I think this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen—“ and Bilbo, distracted from his neglect, went most happily into the library, which was as wondrous as he could have imagined. When he’d found a section on Elven architecture and sank into a soft chair to peruse it, King Elrond ordered some coffee brought to him, and slipped away to deal with the various affairs of state. Bilbo barely pulled himself from his book long enough to bid a proper farewell, and the Elven king left him, satisfied that his guests were now all content.


	12. Evening Discussions

Thorin waited for Bilbo in their quarters. His mood was … slightly better. He’d been fed decently. There was ale. He’d been able to meet with Dolin and Bofur, and be assured that Gandalf had not led him astray: there was indeed tension between father and son, and Dain was most definitely inclined to hand Erebor back to Thorin. One might almost say, in fact, he was eager to hand it back, and drag his cocky young son back to Iron Hills by the scraps of his barely-discernible beard.

The once and future king nodded to himself. Perhaps one day they would all look back on his gold-sickness and say it was merely a bit of a breakdown after his arduous journey, after the years of exile and loss… and he would go on to make the name of Thorin Oakenshield great again. Because, he had to admit, he was not content to be merely “the king who won back Erebor.” Especially when it wasn’t a decisive victory for which he could take full credit.

He hadn’t slain the dragon. It still rather rankled. Oh, he’d gotten the money, he’d gotten the motley crew of dwarves to travel back with him. He’d found his way into the mountain, awoken the dragon, and let him chase them round the caves until he’d tumbled into the molten gold trap that Thorin had arranged. But then the cursed beast had burst out of it and flown to Laketown, where some human had shot him down.

And the dwarves hadn’t even known it for days! They were waiting for Smaug to come back and do battle! Thorin hadn’t known till the refugees had shown up. So… it wasn’t the most glorious ending. He was more the happy recipient of astounding good luck, but no Dwarf can really be content with the title: Thorin Oakenshield, the Lucky King Who Had a Nervous Breakdown Anyway.

Thorin shed his blue velvet and pried the rings off his fingers. Then, glancing around in the darkening room, he heaved a sigh and lit the candles himself. Where was Bilbo?!

He eventually stripped himself of all his finery and was lounging, bored and a little insecure, in his cotton sleepwear when Bilbo finally returned to their suite. He had several books from the Elven library cradled in his arms, and had gotten a bit lost on his way back, but he was here now, well-pleased with his evening.

Bilbo entered the shadowy, candle lit suite to find his lover sprawled on the dark silk bedspread, his black hair streaming over his shoulders, looking uncannily like an ill-tempered octopus in a nest of rising ink.

“Where have you been?” Thorin demanded immediately.

Bilbo set the books down. “Library. Obviously. Had to go somewhere when you three deserted me.” 

Thorin drew himself up to recline against the pillows in a more dignified manner. “Come to bed,” he ordered brusquely.

“Alright, alright, let me just—“ The Hobbit murmured to himself as he darted around the room, tidying his lover’s velvets away and taking his own jacket off and hanging it up.

Thorin watched moodily. “You seemed to enjoy yourself at dinner,” he remarked, chewing his thumbnail without realizing it.

Bilbo shucked his pants off. “I don’t even want to tell you Bofur’s nickname for Dolin,” he grinned.

“Mm. Yes, he seemed to keep you well entertained.”

Bilbo, for the first time ever, picked up on Thorin’s lack of enthusiasm for Bofur’s rapport with his Hobbit. Alertly, he regarded Thorin’s face while he climbed onto the bed and cuddled into his king’s arms.

“Yes, well. He’s funny.”

Thorin wrapped his arms tightly around his lover and then moved to cradle one plump buttock in his large hand.

“Is he?” The dwarf rumbled, and buried his bearded face in Bilbo’s warm neck.  
Bilbo melted into the embrace and squirmed willingly against the hard chest. 

Thorin moved his lips to his Hobbit’s and took the mouth offered with a deep, invasive kiss. Then he drew back. “You are a flirt,” he announced, staring down.

Bilbo was rather offended. “I am most certainly not.” He stated, leaning back and gazing up at his king.

“You are. And you will confess it before the night is done.” Thorin informed him, and without further warning, flipped his lover facedown over his lap and pulled his nightgown up to bare those Hobbity buttocks he was so fond of. 

Thorin pinned him down with practice ease and started spanking in steady slaps that stung more than hurt. Bilbo squirmed in genuine anger, for this did not follow their usual pattern of games. But the dwarf had him well wrestled into place, one elbow holding him down between the shoulder blades, one leg over Bilbo’s protesting legs, and one hand briskly slapping down on his bouncing arse. And the slaps growing just a little harder as they went on.

“Admit that you are a flirt who deserves to be chastised,” Thorin advised, his breathing a bit elevated.

“I am not!” Bilbo protested, his voice rather muffled in the blankets.

Thorin smiled and shifted his hip while pressing down on the Hobbit’s shoulders, expertly bending him further. He spanked harder but slower, letting each strike send its ripples through the round cheeks, and be felt, before slapping down again.

“Thorin, that—that hurts!” Bilbo protested.

Thorin licked his palm thoroughly and attacked again, spreading his fingers.

Bilbo groaned appreciatively.

“Confess,” the King advised calmly, aiming lower.

Bilbo was panting and red-faced to match his red bottom. Thorin paused for a moment to run his fingers very lightly over the sore, sensitive skin. Bilbo shrieked at the sensation and squirmed madly.

“I really must get a feather,” Thorin mused. Then he slapped at the sweet spot in a concentrated attack, building up almost unendurable heat before returning to the teasing, light touches. Bilbo let out a tormented howl, grinding his hardness against Thorin’s thigh. 

“Confess you are a flirt,” the King commanded again, and resumed spanking until Bilbo howled, “I am, I am!!”

Thorin paused, taking one burning cheek in a tight pinch. “You are what?”

“A shameless flirt, whatever you say—“

“Do you deserve release?” Thorin inquired curiously.

“Oh yes, please,” Bilbo whimpered.

The Dwarf King mused. “I wonder. I think perhaps you have grown too confident. Perhaps an unsatisfied evening would do you good.” 

Bilbo twisted his head around and stared at Thorin in disbelief. “You wouldn’t!”

Thorin leaned back. “I think your punishment will be to lie across my lap in just this manner, without moving, for as long as I decree. Wait—“ He applied twenty more stinging slaps as Bilbo squirmed, trying to achieve an orgasm quickly. He was just on the verge when Thorin stopped and leaned back again, ignoring his own throbbing arousal.

Bilbo lay panting for a moment, and then, defiantly, worked his flesh against Thorin’s thigh. The king chuckled and resumed spanking, knowing it would push the Hobbit over the edge. When Bilbo had finally achieved a convulsive release and subsided, exhausted and rather resentful, Thorin reached for the oil, smeared himself up, and penetrated his limp slave carefully. Once he was in, he left off being careful and ground against the reddened buttocks aggressively. Bilbo stretched himself out obligingly, tilting his hips and enjoying the familiar feeling of his lover using him brusquely. He sank into the heady subspace as Thorin pulled his hips up farther and beat into him mercilessly until he came.

They collapsed together and lay sweating. “Tell me you are sorry for making me jealous.” Thorin whispered, squeezing one red cheek painfully.

“I apologize, my king, for making you jealous,” Bilbo mumbled sleepily. Thorin cuddled around him tightly, and they dozed off.

In another room, Dolin was explaining to Bofur the importance of Thorin making the entrance he needed to make when they approached Erebor. Without the Hobbit. Bofur listened attentively, not liking any of it. But, well… he could see the logic.


	13. Planning One's Entrance

Bilbo was sorry to leave Rivendell. It had been three days of good food, leisurely walks through the beautiful city, and visits to the library with coffee or tea sent up. And the nights in the big bed, well. Thorin was absolutely ruthless with his Hobbit. He’d found a willow switch and threatened endlessly to lay one bright welt across the plump arse until Bilbo was certain it was an empty threat. Then he struck, leaving a trail of fire. Bilbo had actually let out a scream. Thorin tossed the switch aside after that, but the welt itself was subjected to quite a bit of pinching and slapping, and Bilbo was forced to admit that Thorin was capable of being just a touch more brutal than he had previously believed. It put a spark of fear (and excitement) in him.

“Are you ready?” Thorin asked on the morning of their departure, stepping in the door of their suite to check that Bilbo was packed and ready to move on.

The Hobbit gave a rather mournful glance around. “I suppose,” he sighed.

Thorin came in and leaned over to retrieve something from under the bed. He came up with the willow switch. “I rather like this,” he commented, and gave Bilbo an unsmiling look. “If one swipe could have you dancing, imagine what several could do.”

Bilbo paled a bit.

“And if you were truly difficult,” Thorin added calmly, and then drew the switch across Bilbo’s back suggestively. The Hobbit’s eyes widened. That seemed to constitute a threat that was not at all playful.

Their eyes met in the mirror. “Mind you be good,” Thorin added quietly, and turned to go, casually sweeping the bit of willow along at his side. Bilbo followed hesitantly, suspecting that Thorin was… mostly joking.

Their entourage was soon loaded and on its way.

Thorin rode in the coach with Bilbo now that Bofur had joined them. He liked to have his consort at his side at all times, and sometimes curled in his lap so that he could stroke the golden curls, and bury his fingers in them, and give long, slow pulls occasionally, just to remind the Hobbit of what awaited in their tent come nightfall. Sometimes Thorin wrapped his Hobbit in a blanket and stroked him teasingly beneath it, hidden from sight, so that Bilbo would be aroused and breathless when the tents were finally pitched for the night.

But Thorin’s mood was not so much teasing as moody. It reminded Bilbo of the possessive manner that had overcome him when he’d wrapped his slave in gold. But there was no gold, and no Arkenstone. They were only just now beyond the Misty Mountains, approaching Mirkwood, and Bilbo was not sure what would set his lover off so soon.

Was it just the worrying about his reception in Erebor? His capacity to rule? Was it the presence of Bofur, who occasionally cracked a joke that made Bilbo smile, but who, for the most part, rode ahead with the Captain of the Guard and Dolin? Bilbo wasn’t certain. But whatever it was, he was beginning to … not enjoy the traveling. Thorin had too much time to brood. He needed to begin his new life, and Bilbo needed to settle into his proper place (whatever that might be) and not be relied on too heavily to be a sexual distraction.

Bilbo was musing upon this one evening as the entourage pitched camp for the night. In the distance, one could see the looming darkness of Mirkwood. Bilbo was rather looking forward to it, wondering if he would see any Elves he recognized again. He wandered out to the edge of the campsite, gazing first behind him, at the distant Misty Mountains, and then before them, at the dark smudge of Mirkwood.

It was a moment before he became aware that someone was behind him. He turned to see Bofur, or rather, a silhouette in his beloved hat. Bilbo grinned happily, before remembering that Thorin was getting rather odd about the toy-maker. Bilbo cast a nervous glance beyond him. No sign of Thorin.

“Getting near now,” Bofur commented, drawing a pipe out of his jacket and lighting it up.

“How long does it take to get through Mirkwood?” Bilbo asked. 

“Two days if the Elves help you. Three if they don’t. And forever if they decide they want to make you disappear.” Bofur said candidly.

Bilbo’s eyebrows stretched up under his curls. “Truly?”

Bofur puffed on his pipe. “Oh yes. If they don’t like you, that’s it.”

Bilbo looked back at Mirkwood. Now he felt rather uneasy. “But they like us now, right? Thranduil’s happy, he got his diamonds… he likes Bombur’s cookies, I hear.”

“I think they like Thorin well enough for a three day journey, but not enough for two.” Bofur opined. “They’ll be interested to see you again, still at Thorin’s side. Still his weak spot.”

Bilbo darted a look up at Bofur. That was an unusually serious observation. “Thanks,” he said drily.

Bofur glanced around behind them and Bilbo realized that he, too, was on the look-out for Thorin.

“Dolin thinks that you, he, and I should ride on ahead. Disguise you as a bundle of medical supplies and gallop through Mirkwood as if on a mission of mercy to Erebor.”

“What??” Bilbo was astonished. This was completely out of the blue. “Why?”

Bofur lowered his voice. “So that the Elves don’t know you’ve come back with him until later. They could still see you as a bargaining chip for a few more trinkets. And the Dwarves who are not certain that Thorin should come back, not certain he’s sane enough, recovered enough… if they see him return with you at his side, they’ll fixate on you right off.”

The Hobbit immediately realized the truth of this. Thorin himself had admitted it before they left the Blue Mountains. “See, they’ll say… he still can’t let that Hobbit go.”

“Have you suggested this to Thorin?” Bilbo whispered.

Bofur nodded. “He won’t have it. Wants you at his side every minute. I wish he’d listen. He said before he wanted to do things better this time. Well, this would be a start. Sneaky, maybe, but politically smart.”

The darkness was settling, and Bilbo was getting cold. He wrapped his arms around himself. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

Bofur glanced behind them again. “No. We want you to leave with us tomorrow night. Quietly.”

The Hobbit’s blue eyes got very large. “In secret?”

Bofur nodded, gazing down at him calmly.

“Thorin will be furious!” Bilbo whispered, horrified.

Bofur nodded again. “At first, he would be. But once we’re all back in Erebor, he’ll see we were right.”

Bilbo shivered, looking over the plains. “Why tomorrow night?”

“It’ll take us all day tomorrow to get to the edge of Mirkwood. The Captain of the Guard plans to camp on the edge and then plunge into the forest in the morning. If we took off tonight, here in the great wide open, they’d simply catch us out on the plain. But if we vanish into Mirkwood tomorrow night, they aren’t likely to even see us go.”

“How will we get through?” Bilbo whispered, realizing as he did so that he was already contemplating doing this, going with Bofur and Dolin, and leaving Thorin behind to find out in the morning that—a shudder went down him. Oh, he’d be furious. He’d be furious.

“Just me and Dolin, and a bag of medical supplies?” Bofur smiled and reached into his pocket, pulling out a diamond necklace. “Dolin may have talked with one of the She-Elves on our way through when we set out to meet you in Rivendell. Seems there’s at least one who is willing to guide two desperate Dwarves who were sent out in search of rare herbs.”

Bilbo’s eyes could not have gotten wider. “You planned this so far in advance?”

Bofur shrugged and tucked the necklace away. “It’s why we were sent. Dain’s been thinking about this for some weeks now.”

“He knew Thorin would say No?” wondered Bilbo. It was quite dark now. Bofur’s pipe was the only light.

“No, he just knew he wanted to get you through Mirkwood and into Erebor without anyone seeing you.”

“I see,” Bilbo sighed, and rubbed his chilled arms. “I’d better go back to the tent.”

“Let us know,” Bofur advised quietly, and then gave his familiar smile.


	14. Making Decisions

When he returned to the tent, Thorin was waiting for him. Bilbo entered, let the flap fall behind him, and turned to face his king. Thorin was sitting on a stool near their evening tea, several lamps burning nearby. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, a posture he only took when deep in thought. He turned his head to watch his Hobbit draw near.

Bilbo’s steps faltered. Those eyes were very serious. Not brooding, not distant, but very present, very direct, and very serious.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Thorin said quietly.

Bilbo drew in his breath. Just when he’d begun to think of his lover as a moody despot, Thorin comes up from underwater to startle him. Suddenly, with all his finery set aside for the night, he was simply a handsome dwarf with long dark hair, in a shirt and trousers, sitting on a stool, the lamplight making his eyes dark and shadowy. 

Thorin waited, looking straight into Bilbo’s eyes, his face open and patient, and so beautiful. Bilbo came to him and sank to the rug between his feet. “I love you,” he whispered, without even meaning to say it.

Thorin tipped his head slightly and his hands moved to caress Bilbo’s curls with unaccustomed gentleness. He traced his fingers wonderingly over the Hobbit’s cheeks and jawline. Finally he said, “I love you too, my little companion.” Then he smiled, and Bilbo thought his heart would break.

“I would do anything for you.” Bilbo said, gazing up at his king, and he knew deep down that he was trying to warn him now, trying to let drop some hint or clue, trying to say something that Thorin would, hopefully, look back on and realize… 

Thorin stroked his Hobbit’s head lovingly. “My Bilbo,” he sighed.

“I mean it, Thorin. I want you to have what you want. I want you to have Erebor, to have your rule, your reputation, your… everything. I’ll do anything to help.” Bilbo added, trying with his eyes to impress upon Thorin, remember these words. Remember them tomorrow night, and don’t be angry.

The King reached down and scooped his lover up into his lap. “I know,” he said, cuddling him close and kissing his cheeks and forehead, and that funny nose. “I know you would.”

Bilbo snuggled guiltily into Thorin’s arms, thinking, _You don’t really know. But you will. And hopefully, you’ll understand, later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this, you see, is Part 2. Can't you just tell the shit is about to hit the fan?


End file.
